Physical Memory
by caffeine.bloodstream
Summary: PC x Mac. Techslash! Not sure how to summarize this one. PC keeps some interesting things in his Bookmarks.


Physical Memory

By caffeine.bloodstream

3.17.2007

Disclaimer: The only Mac I own is the one on my desk. Also, this is going to make very little sense if you haven't seen the commercials. Apple dot com slash getamac slash ads.

* * *

"That was very simple," PC admits, couch cushions accommodating with a quiet squeak as he sits back. Mac is sitting next to him, on furniture white and sleek like nearly every piece of it he owns, and at PC's contented remark he smiles.

"I told you it would be," he points out.

"Yes, you did." He actually told PC this more than once. It was a wonder it'd taken any repetition, after they'd both seen how Firefox could perform (which, somewhat amazingly, they could still remember – even after all the trial downloads and deceptively intoxicating betas that had preceded that demo). And really, it wasn't that PC doubted this would be a good move. Mac had been using the program longer than he had, and could attest to its security, its ease of use, its practical interface. It was just that saying hello to Firefox was effectively saying goodbye to Internet Explorer, and therein laid the difficulty for PC. It was the sort of thing that he would indeed put into his scheduler, but that kept getting conveniently bumped down the list by more urgent things, like sorting his emails or rearranging the icons on his desktop. Finally, he'd stopped putting it off, and finds himself now without the regret he'd been bracing himself for.

The install was familiar in its format, straightforward, but he still gets a little thrill of uncertain curiosity as he loads it for the first time. Mac's whole place is set up with high-speed wireless, and in the blink of an LED there it is – Firefox. And it's welcoming him. Mac watches PC from the corner of his eye, watches PC's hesitant little smile as he scans through the drop-down menus, investigating his options. There aren't any add-ons yet, and considering his past experience with browser clutter he's wary to get any, but Mac plans to set him up with a few essentials. He clicks on 'Bookmarks', and seems happily surprised at the neat list that drops down in response.

"It imported my Favorites."

"Well, yeah," answers Mac, eyeing the list. Google. CNN. The Microsoft Update page. "You told it to during the install, remember?"

"Yes, but I didn't really---I wasn't sure it would," he admits. He is a fundamentally trusting machine, but new software always takes a little warming up to. "It even kept my subfolders," he notes as he scrolls down, sounding impressed. Mac can't help but chuckle. Sure, he himself has subfolders – who doesn't? – but PC is crazy about them. Boxes within boxes within boxes. It's a marvel he can ever find anything in that kind of nesting-doll madness, but he insists it makes sense to him. Idly, Mac peers over at the titles on these. News Sites. Virus Protection. 'Blogs – with the apostrophe and everything, which is so utterly PC it makes Mac grin. Then, Mac.

That isn't a broken sentence. One of the subfolders on the list is labeled Mac, and it's only natural that that's the one he fixates on, curious.

"What's with the Mac folder?" he has to ask, intrigued. "You…visit Apple sites?"

"What?" PC seems caught off-guard then, mysteriously, swallows hard. "Ah. No."

It's not really an answer. Curiosity only kills cats, allegedly, so Mac tries again.

"Is that where you keep stuff I send you to?" PC looks increasingly…embarrassed? Something. He's starting to blush, which Mac finds way too interesting to leave alone.

"No, it's…it's nothing."

Now, PC is definitely more aware of personal space than Mac, and generally Mac respects this. But the more PC refuses to show him what's in the folder – it's got his name on it, doesn't he have some kind of right to know? Yes? – the more he wants to see. So in a moment of diminished self-control, he leans over and clicks on it himself, and PC – too late to stop him – goes even redder.

"Ear". That's the first link in the list, and, boggling, Mac clicks. It brings up an image, a jpeg, of an ear. Well, not quite of an ear, but more focused on the spot just below and behind one, next to the jawline. It takes a little staring and a little deductive reasoning, but he comes to the realization after a moment that the dark stubble and shaggy hair framing that spot are his own. His ear. He eyes PC questioningly, but PC seems intent on shrinking into his suit, torn between embarrassment and irritation at having his privacy invaded. He should have named the folder something else, he thinks, but he knows he never would. He is not one for subterfuge. Mac goes on.

"Wrist" is the next one, and like "Ear", it's a link to an image. And, if Mac's not mistaken, that's the inside of his own wrist. The same holds true for "Back of Neck" and "Inner Thigh" and eventually they start to get a little personal and he backs off, eyes on PC, waiting for an explanation.

PC isn't sure what to say. He's perilously close to crashing out of sheer awkwardness (this is possible, he's found) but manages to keep it together even when Mac speaks up. It's some consolation that he sounds at least a little like PC feels right then, surprised and vaguely unsettled.

"So, uh…What are…I mean, why…" He's not sure how to phrase it, so it trails off there and PC swallows again before looking up to meet that curious gaze. Well, maybe the best way to do this is via demonstration – Mac loves demos – and he takes a deep breath. With Mac watching curiously, he lifts a hand to the back of the other's neck, pulling him in close, and suddenly his lips are on the spot from that first jpeg, just beside Mac's jaw. Lips, and tongue, and even teeth, and it makes Mac shiver intensely.

"PC," he breathes, a very nice kind of startled as PC pulls back. He's still blushing, but now Mac's kind of red too, so it's a little more fair. PC likes it that way.

"That's how you react every time," he explains. Before Mac can say anything, the hand that had looped around his neck to pull him in moves, fingertips trailing feather-light just below Mac's hairline. That touch sends a wonderful little tingle right through him, and he sighs deeply. It takes him a moment to realize PC spoke, and another one to translate what he meant, but now it's starting to come together. The more coherent the idea gets, the more he likes it, and he's grinning so much it's almost a laugh by the time he voices his thoughts.

"You…bookmarked my sensitive spots."

For as embarrassed as he first looked, PC seems confident enough when he replies, reasoning simple and sensible. Sensible is one of his favorite adjectives.

"I didn't want to forget any of them."

It's wonderful. It's absolutely great, and Mac is amused and touched and surprised because somehow, it's both the last thing he would ever expect PC to do –and- perfectly logical by his standards. It's the kind of thing that falls into categories he doesn't usually see PC stray towards.

Meanwhile, PC has some opinions of his own about all this. Contemplations, really. He's pretty sure Mac's skin is to blame, or rather that leaning over and toying with it is, because it's impossible to do something like that without getting any kind of internal feedback reaction of his own. It is simply a question, now, of how to handle that. He toys with a few ideas, but keeps coming back to the same one, and finally speaks up.

"Mac," he begins. There is something in his tone that sounds like an effort to be persuasive. It's not quite seductive, per se, but if one were to return to the subfolder metaphor, it'd probably be in the same one. This has Mac's interest instantly. "You've shown me the tabbed browsing before. Is it possible to open an entire subfolder in tabs this way, simultaneously?"

"Should be," Mac answers. PC moves closer, and again it's that almost-seductive thing and Mac's processor goes a little faster in response. "Why?"

"I would like to try something," PC answers cryptically. Cryptic. He's not usually cryptic, and that just solidifies it for Mac – this is _foreplay_. Oh, and it is working wonderfully. He's not used to being on the receiving end of that, and certainly not from PC.

"Oh?" He plays along. PC's fingers are still on the back of his neck, and when they move just slightly, he takes a sharp breath.

"I would like to visit all of those sites in one session," he says, and the implication goes straight to Mac's hard drive. The phrasing is so technical and so straightforward that there's no _way_ it should be turning him on like that, but it is, and they both know it. Really, Mac's reactions are the only reason PC can keep going with this game – it isn't usually his forte, but his confidence is being boosted with every signal he gets in response.

Abruptly, Mac kisses PC. Or PC kisses Mac. It's so fast and so utterly mutual that there's no telling who should get the credit for it. It's not like they're keeping track anyways, lips firmly docked, hands wandering all over the place. PC is apparently satisfied with the way the almost-seduction was going, because he doesn't back down as he sometimes does – if anything, Mac would say he's being especially assertive, and the fact that Mac is suddenly on his back on the couch pretty much confirms that. He could suggest they take this to bed, because for as big and comfortable as it is this is still just a couch, but that would mean talking and talking would mean not kissing PC, and Mac has his priorities straight, thank you very much. When he does get a theoretical chance to talk, lips freed, it doesn't happen anyways – because PC's have gone back to that first bookmark, right under his ear, and damned if he can manage anything coherent with PC on him like this. All he's really sure of right now is that he should have coaxed PC into installing Firefox a long, long time ago.

PC is of a similar sentiment, as well as a few less benign ones that he chalks up to the way Mac is suddenly clinging to him, fingertips digging into his shoulders. He hates to pull away, but he does, just for long enough to start unbuttoning his shirt. He's at home, so there's no tie or coat to bother with, but it's still more time-consuming than he really likes right then. Fortunately, Mac – clever machine that he is – is more than happy to help, stealing kisses left and right while his hands start at the bottom of PC's shirt and work their way up, button by button, till between the two of them it hangs open and PC can sit back to shrug it off. In an admirable demonstration of multi-tasking, he manages to steal most of those kisses back as he helps Mac out of his own t-shirt, and then they're back where they were, Mac laying down and happily cushioned between soft couch and soft PC. It's a very nice place to be, which explains why he only stops smiling when PC claims his lips for other purposes.

They don't stay there, though, PC's lips. Once again they're at that spot, the one that gets Mac all squirmy and pleased, and true to form Mac is squirming pleasantly. PC noses at the spot and Mac instinctually turns his head to the side in response; that leads PC to bookmark number 3, right above the first bump of his spine. PC gives the same attention there that he had at his first stopping point, kissing and licking and generally giving Mac a whole new appreciation for subfolders. He almost points out that PC's not going in order, but that would almost definitely throw him off, and Mac knows better. He stays quiet, in the less-common sense of the word 'quiet', the sense that actually means 'quiet except for the panting'.

In at least one way, PC _is_ going in order – moving vertically, or horizontally as it were, because he scoots back a little where he's propped over Mac and his mouth finds the hollow of his neck, right between his collarbones. Mac has just enough time to think _Huh, is that one of my spots?_ before PC closes his lips there, sucks hard, and demonstrates that it is. "PC," he moans; PC makes some muffled sound in response, eyes closed like he's concentrating. Mac's eyes are closed too, but he's closer to not thinking at all than he is to thinking intensely like PC seems to be. "Oh, man, PC…"

Tabbed browsing would be what he's been doing up to that point – moving easily from one bookmark, one Favorite, to the next. What he does now is more like a javascript popup – splitting his focus in the truest sense of the phrase. His lips are still on bookmark number five, but one hand moves from Mac's couch to his chest, and there's number seven under his thumb, already stiff with arousal. It only takes a slight touch there to make Mac moan again, a wonderful unashamed sound that PC treasures every time he gets to hear it. His other hand is pretty firmly invested in keeping him propped up – he carries a fair amount of weight, and doesn't want to outright squish Mac – but with a little shifting around, knees digging into the couch at either side of Mac's waist, he feels confident enough to abandon that support. It's not the easiest position on his back, being hunched over like this, but it's vitally important to stay close enough for Mac to keep clutching his shoulders like that. It just is.

The newly-freed hand skips its way down the list of bookmarks till it finds the one that marks Mac's hips, or more specifically (since there are actually a few in that general region) the curve of his hipbone, straight and prominent and as beautifully shaped as the rest of him. His other hand is still busy, as is his mouth – oh, he is enjoying this system. Mac is enjoying it too, which he explains in a series of incoherent little sounds and a rearranged repetition or two of "Oh, PC, yeah…"

"You're very sensitive," PC remarks, lips now just brushing the skin they'd been attending to. It occurs to him that he never really realized just how reactive Mac is, simply because PC is usually the one doing most of the reacting. Their current arrangement is the exception, not the rule, but right now he thinks it may be worth pursuing more often. He likes that he's still clear-headed enough to notice the way Mac arches towards him, that his own voice isn't drowning out Mac's.

"I'm not complaining," he adds as a clarification, and goes back to what he'd been doing. Mac starts to laugh, but it chokes off and ends in a pleased groan when PC's lower-placed hand wanders inward along the line of his hip. There's still a layer of denim and a layer of cotton to get past if PC's going to get to the bookmark he seems interested in right now, but he's obviously realized that because he's already fumbling with the button and zipper. Kind of tricky one-handed, he finds, but that other hand is still gainfully employed and he plans to keep it that way.

In the end, he does manage it, though it takes both hands (and some helpful squirming on Mac's part, though he's glad to contribute to this noble goal of being naked) to get everything pulled down his hips and, finally, off all together. And PC's still half-dressed. This is a rare setup. He takes a moment to just admire the view, to do what a thousand technophiles before him have done and give mental praise to Mac's design. He's sleek and slim and elegant, and even PC's tendency to feel a little inferior by comparison can't stop him from enjoying this moment.

Mac's enjoying it too, but not quite as much. PC looking, and looking like _that_, is really nice. He feels beautiful, admired. But before he was looking, PC was –touching-, and he'd really like to get back to that part of it, so he sits up and wraps his arms around PC's neck and pulls him back into a kiss. He ends up backed up against the armrest, PC pressing him there in the nicest way, and grinds himself against the khakis PC still hasn't been removed from. He makes this a priority, and apparently PC is starting to feel the same because when Mac moves again, he groans against his lips. This time, there's not one but four hands all going for the same set of fastenings, and they both laugh at their mutual eagerness but somehow manage to get it worked out. Mac maintains amazing patience for the moment it takes PC to stand up, step out of his pants, fold them neatly up and set them aside, but as soon as PC's back on the couch, he flat-out grabs him and pulls him close once more.

Without any clothes between them, PC's bumping into quite a few of those bookmarks just by virtue of proximity. This is still good enough to count, though he likes to be thorough. With Mac on his back once again, PC shifts over him – oh, _that_ felt nice – and trails his mouth down to his seventh bookmark, lips and tongue picking up where his hand had left off, teasing the firm little nub while Mac arches and tries to grip at PC's too-short hair, desperate to keep him there. Desperation looks good on Mac, thinks PC, a thought that takes even him by surprise. It's true, though.

Said desperation is not something Mac's used to, any more than PC's used to being the one in control. But they're both enjoying it, for all its spontaneity, and Mac is never afraid to show it when he's enjoying something. It's actually pretty effortless for him to let go of the urge to be on top, to be the one directing. Some say he's easy that way. He prefers 'user-friendly'. And if the user is PC, he can be _extra_ friendly.

PC's hand is on his hip again, and again it trails in along that smooth line, but this time there's no button or zipper to head for. Just Mac, hard and straining, and the sound he makes when PC's fingers curl around him is burned right into PC's memory. "Mac," he murmurs appreciatively in reply, lips drifting their way up to brush the shell of his ear. It's not a spot on the list, but right then Mac is basically one big sensitive spot, and hearing that murmur so close actually makes him whimper, gritting his teeth and lifting his hips into PC's hand. He's beautiful like this, and PC can barely stand it, breathless as that hand works over him.

Mac isn't so far gone that he can't think ahead – yet, anyways – and so he only lets himself enjoy this for a little longer before shifting considerably, legs drawing back till his knees are nearly at his shoulders and his ankles cross behind PC's back. That makes him look up, and his hand stops – something Mac isn't thrilled about, but PC's been running a hell of a lot of simultaneous processes up to this point, so he's not going to complain if one or two drop off to keep him from crashing.

"PC," he mumbles throatily, licking his lips. This isn't PC's attempted-almost-seductive – this is the kind of seductive that happens when he's not even in any state to attempt it. This is 'I want you', unfiltered and unprocessed. Which means PC can read it on an almost instinctual level, and unthinkingly licks his own lips, nodding his understanding. Mac closes his eyes. He can hear PC spit into his palm, hear his breathing quicken – he shivers with the knowledge of what that hand's doing – and PC shifts, lining them up. As soon as he starts to push forward, Mac needs something to hold onto. The couch is smooth, too smooth; PC's shoulders are soft and convenient, and he finds his fingers digging into the other's back again, clinging tight. PC approves, judging by the shaky moan his breath comes out as, and then they're completely docked and Mac confirms the connection with a low groan.

"Oh damn, _yes_…."

PC is tense and very still, and for a frightening moment Mac thinks he may have frozen up, which would have to win some kind of bad-timing award. But then he shudders – he was just adjusting, calibrating himself to handle this connection. Every slight motion fires up more circuits than he can count, and the not-so-slight ones when he's got his bearings are enough to make them both groan, Mac lifting to press his head into PC's shoulder and PC holding firmly onto his hips for leverage.

It takes a little working into, as it always does, a few tentative motions like pings being sent out to test the link, but soon enough they've found their connection and PC's thrusts are slow, steady, perfectly timed. The pace isn't anything intense, but Mac can still barely catch his breath. PC's motions may be slower than his own usually would, but he makes every one count. Mac can hear both of their processors whirring, both of their fans spinning intently, but he's much more fascinated by the sound of PC panting beside his ear, by the little whimpery moans that slip out when he pushes in hard. PC can appreciate Mac's voice too, to a lesser extent – much of his processing power is just on holding together, trying to manage a million inputs at once and still keep moving.

Mac has already decided by now that being on the bottom with PC is something worth repeating. That doesn't mean his usual personality and habits have completely abandoned him, and soon he's rocking his hips to match the motions of PC's, grinding against him with every thrust. That proves to have more of an effect on him than he expected, and he clutches tighter to PC's shoulders – but judging by the way that smooth rhythm is starting to lose some of its evenness, it's affecting PC just as much.

Their connection is unhindered, and PC uploads and Mac downloads and both of them gasp.

After PC disconnects, Mac lets his legs flop down, going limp with the rest of his body – it's a good couch for that kind of thing, he thinks dazedly. Soft and just supportive enough. When PC, completely overworked, can't hold himself up any longer, he drops not onto the couch but onto Mac, who 'oof's quietly but smiles. PC's weight isn't a bad kind of weight. Right then, he's sort of like a big warm blanket. Not that Mac needs any extra heat, but the analogy stands. He's comfortable, and Mac strokes his back, fingers now smoothing gently over the crescent-moon dents his nails left in the other's shoulders. PC wants to say something, tell him how good that was or something, but he's lagging something fierce – who could blame him? – and devotes the moment instead to catching his breath and regrouping. Mac's fine with the silence.

When he finally is up to speaking again, he doesn't. It's easier, and nicer, to push himself up slightly and press a soft kiss to Mac's lips. Mac sighs, smiles, and looks utterly worn out. That looks good on him too, PC notes. Almost as good as the desperation of before.

"So," he asks, eyes bright, hair sticking to his forehead, "Did you cover the whole subfolder?"

Oh. Right. PC had sort of forgotten about that. He checks the tabs, looks Mac over, and wrinkles his nose.

"No," he admits. "I missed a few." It hadn't bothered him at the time, but now he's a little miffed. He actually had intended to. Then again, there are a few that wouldn't be so easy from this position, which leads him right into the train of thought Mac helpfully voices then, grinning.

"So we'll have to do this again some time. Y'know, to make sure you can get them all."

As if they need an excuse.

"Yes," PC agrees, trying not to grin. "Possibly multiple times."

"Multiple times."

"Yes."

Mac can't help it; he gives in and laughs. "Sounds like a plan, buddy."

PC smiles, then pauses.

"Mac."

"Mm?"

"I am exhausted. You…may not want to be right there, right now, unless you don't mind going anywhere for a few hours." Mac blinks, thinks that over, and chuckles.

"I don't mind," he answers. PC seems genuinely pleased by this, and lays his head down on Mac's chest with a sigh. He's out like a light, and Mac just watches him rest for a little while before following suit and drifting off to Sleep mode. His dreams are strange but pleasant, and all he can readily remember of them when he wakes is PC's subfolder, the one with his name on it. His name is on a little part of PC.

He likes that. He may not have a subfolder in his favorites, but he has a blog; he may not have Bookmarks for PC, but he has Memories for him.

And oh, this whole night is getting recorded as one of those.


End file.
